


Barry Allen's new family(updated 9/26)

by MarthaBug0192



Category: Justice League (2017), Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Adoption, Anorexia, Anxiety Disorder, Barry Allen & Iris West Friendship, Barry Allen Needs a Hug, Barry Allen Whump, Barry Allen has Panic Attacks, Blood, Body Dysphoria, Bruce Has Issues, Canon-Typical Violence, Cutting, Depression, Developing Relationship, Drug Addiction, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Gen, Hurt Barry Allen, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Barry Allen/Iris West, Mommy Diana, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Arthur, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Separation Anxiety, Team as Family, Victor is a good brother, anorexic Barry Allen, daddy bruce
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2019-11-01 06:34:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17862185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarthaBug0192/pseuds/MarthaBug0192
Summary: Inspired by the files scene in Suicide Squad and all these fanfics about Barry and Foster family problems and psychosis.Bruce and Diana and their adopted son Victor come together to form family and rescue a teenager  with PTSD and anxiety disorders to be defeated. With a city to keep safe, it seems like they may not be the best family, but together with the help of Drunk Uncle Arthur and Alfred, they are the best family for Barry.  rated M for depictions of OCD, skin picking, anorexia, self-harm, depression triggers, sexual themes, anxiety, and language.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is not going to make sense but I don't give a fuk. It's going to be cute and you're going to like it and that's the end of it. I like it and this is happening so sit down and prepare for some drama and fluff and sad

The social worker folded her hands on the table. A sigh escaped her mouth as the man reached for the folder. The way his thick tie brushes the water stained glass was an unbelievable sight, nearly refreshing. It made her black blazer and slightly off black skirt from the thrift store no longer match.

He flipped the cover back, quickly before he could see the Arkham label. Inside was a lots of uneven typeface, with a lot of fields written on top of white out. A photo with a sepia tone that made the boy's grimace even more unsettled, and a little more fragile. He couldn't be any older than seventeen though the bags under his piercing stare said otherwise. Greasy black hair stuck to his eyelashes like some sort of mask, but Mr. Wayne was the kind of man who could read right through.

"Mr. Wayne," the worker demanded, " you do understand my legal exposure."

Bartholomew Henry Allen. Mr. Wayne wasn't sure how a young man like him could live up to such a name. Particularly considering his origin being boiled down to what little he currently has to manage with.

Barry, for short. He does not respond well to his full name. Must be an earful for the mouthful, especially with Henry. And Wayne understands completely.

His lips stumbled over the grayness, his eyes frozen like cement. The sepia of the picture was feeling like the most colorful thing in the world, though he knew it was quite the opposite. His eyes and the boy met, and would never part even when Bruce glanced up at the worker.

"Consider him under my protection."

The dim light bounced off of the worker's eyes. "Why, Mister Wayne?"

He wished he could tell her what exactly he saw in the burning eyes. If it wasn't so much for secret. Actually, he wasn't so sure that he even knew what it was. For right now, it would be, " I like to make friends.."

"That's the difference between you and me..."

He rose from his seat. Casting shadow over the table and on the wall when he passed the windows on the opposite wall. Beams from the cities prickled his face like his stubble, and the intensity of them made him realize that his car was the only car in the parking lot. And that the black Benz had light shooting directly through it, with nobody in the car to look back at him.

The social worker lifted her glass of blood red champagne. She believed in many things, but that didn't include friendship.

Wayne knew that he could have done better despite the need for friendship and intimacy seeming to be enough to explain Everything. If Diana had been in the car, she definitely would be walking through the parking lot now after waiting a good 40 minutes, coming in to say the perfect things.

His hand grabbed the door handle. "Good night."

" You look tired." She remarked that he should stop working nights.

He smiled over his shoulder.


	2. Chapter 2

Considering all that's happened, a big mirror above the sink is one of the last things Barry would expect to still have when he woke up at night. The froth of his breath was making it hard to see whether the bleeding crater in his chin still had the blackhead or not. While he was there, he may as well make sure that his forehead was clean too. Spider legs of oily hair kept swooping in the way, but pushing them behind his ears would make the fat on his cheeks show. His neck seemed to be thicker than the knotted bun in his hair, unless he pushed his head far forward or upward, which would flex the beads of adipose tissue - never mind, that still proved how disgusting he was. Many aides and an ER Tech have already seen it, and he didn't need anyone else judging him.

The sharp edges on his freshly peeled nails hurt like a bitch. The metallic red goop - he didn't like to think of it as vital fluid because it was too gory - was building up on his fingers again, twisting his lungs and stomach. Keeping focus on his objective usually helped. He couldn't just let this infection stay in his skin, to be buried by new cells, and pretend like everything was normal. Barry knew he was wrong a lot of times - ha, most of the time - but he knew this was worth just a couple of minutes in the bathroom.

Or, as he caught the incoming sun through the window near the ceiling, a few whole hours.

He tucked his head near his shoulder. Pretending to have to sneeze or to be thinking really hard, in case the tears started to come and he had to hide them from the air and furniture and the dangling fluorescent light. What was wrong with him? His quarters and bathroom were staring; they knew. The air knew. His mother's ghost would know, and she was probably hovering her wings over him like a lost, useless, pitiful burden. What is wrong with him?it wasn't 2 a.m. anymore. He had to have been standing there for a fifth of a day, because the a.m aide was now hitting her knuckles on his door.

She knew he'd be awake per usual. Barry, don't get mad, she's here to make sure you're okay. No, Barry, it's just her job, remember? She's being paid to tap the door, say "Bartholomew. It's nurse Sherry. It's time to go down for breakfast, otherwise the nutritionist will need a room order." and then repeat a few times. The limit was five times. Then the job would be handed over to the Head Nurse.

He always wondered why she would even bother. Why they even bother having her waste her time trying on him, and then make the nutritionist or head nurse waste time trying to force him to do what he didn't need to do. Even in the slim, stupid case that this aide wanted to help, they both knew she couldn't.

A month ago Barry had sent a nurse to an HR meeting. To this day, he could still feel the leather strips on his scarred wrists. The hard plush of the hospital bed as his ribs and hips failed to sink into it. And he clearly remembers not controlling his temper and nearly biting the poor woman's fingers off for trying to shove a tube in his nose. What he now realizes was her sympathetic attempt to help him in his time of need. The kind nurse nearly lost her job and faced investigation in multiple meetings, because of Barry.

The aide at the door was trying to help. Her job or her kindness, neither here nor there. Blissfully unaware that there was nothing she could do. And that she was going to get hurt if she truly did care.

Barry clinched himself in this jacket - a deep black and red that blood spots easily blended into, despite in the flannel starting to fade, with the zipper and string removed and the outside pockets sewn shut the way his sweats and all of his jean pockets were. He finally just started getting over how modified it was, but despite it all, the jacket is Barry's skin.

"Bartholomew Allen," and she would go on to repeat herself.

"No," Barry said, " just bring it in."

Still, wasn't sure why he was telling her to waste her time and letting them make the nutritionist waste time. He's come to accept that the ladies in the kitchen were not wasting their time, because they surely had everything prepared anyway for other people who had high dietary needs, but that's neither here nor there and it wasn't the cooks' responsibility to pack up the food that was to be wasted and bring it all the way to the 7th floor, for a person who didn't even need it or deserve it.

" just... Well... Like, whatever is out there, whatever is ready." A dryness twinged in his mouth and burned his tongue a little. "Just bring it in."

The aide was being paid, or he hoped at least. Obviously, Barry, she was being paid. Don't be so stupid.

But what if she was working overtime from the night before. And in this shitty economy, she probably wasn't getting compensated for it. His mind couldn't help but flash with the image of her trudging through the unvacuumed tan carpet of her apartment in the Narrows, loosening the headache of a brown ponytail, placing her bag down, and putting her check on a shelf in the living room in anticipation of cashing it the next day, and seeing that it was $300 short, even after working five or even ten extra hours in that nasty hallway, spending a total minimum of free extra hours a week waiting for him to answer the door and do what corporate wanted him to do. And all the hours she must spend every week, mopping his blood and urine and searching for blood-stained clothes that he hides under his mattress and arguing to make him feel better.

His jacket became moist on his face. Sticky with spit and snot that pooled from his face. He couldn't help but cry, and he deserved it.

He forced himself out of his bathroom, into his quarters and past the clump of blankets on the floor. He tried to not focus on the blankets, or else he would reexperience completely waking up and realizing that he would have nothing to cover up with the next time he wanted to sleep. Barry would see it through the darkness of the room anyway, likely because he deserved to cry more.

Sherry continued. This was probably the last time. " Barry Allen, I'm going to come in."

Some footsteps. Very recognizable footsteps. A voice Barry has heard too many times. " Allen, I am going to bring you your breakfast, alright?" Despite not meaning to yell, and having a trace of cheerfulness in her voice, the head nurse still was still as loud as can be. Barry hated it, as much as he hated to hate it.

Their cheerful voices drummed as if there was a parade outside of the door. Maybe if you stayed quiet, Barry, they would think you weren't there.

No, how stupid is that. The gleaming window below the ceiling was too small, especially for his body. The other head nurse had locked him into this cement square - no, cube - yesterday afternoon after he got upset about her trying to force him to eat poisoned food. Where could he have gone if he was not there? Under his blanket or jacket like a baby?

He fell down on his bed. They knew that he heard them. They weren't sure if they were encouraging him, but they would try anyway of course. They would only get louder, and louder, and louder, and louder.

Louder.

Louder.

Insistent.

Louder.

Demanding.

Louder. Mean. Harassing.

Suffocating.

Consistent. Hovering.

Stabbing.

Amused.

Even when the door swung open. Their footsteps invading the small space. Coming closer to him, demanding for him, in the dark. Remaining in the shadows despite for a small dangling light in the other room. Even sunrise wasn't too late to have to protect himself. Barry would know and he would be stupid to ignore his instincts right now.

He backed into the headboard. The metal bars pressing his ribs into the back of his lungs. His hand wiping the weakness off of his face. Although he couldn't deny to himself that he was so scared that the saltiness of his tears seeping into his bite wounds barely fazed him. Stupid, Barry, stupid.

What was going to happen when they did get to him? After they shut the door, it was only he and them alone. And whatever was going to happen was going to happen. They were going to see what he had done to his face, and they would not understand it was something that needed to be done, and they would probably - what would they do? The question wasn't what they could do, because they had the power to do anything, so the concern was what they were going to do to him. With nobody around to see, and everybody knowing that Barry would not reveal to anyone else. Stupid, Barry. Why, Barry?

" Barry..." in the same manner that a predator uses to lure trust.

Of course, the head nurse knew his name. She would never call him Bartholomew, or heaven forbid Henry, or heaven forbid combined Bartholomew with Henry or all three together. She knew that he would hurt her, of course, and ultimately that whatever their plan was would not work.

He pulled the hem where his zipper teeth had once been, bit it between his teeth as hard as he could. Another part of the jacket was now concealing his chin and neck, where the flabs of fat scrunched together glued by sweat and drool.

It was easing his stomach. Tricking the grumbles into thinking that food was coming in, so they would soon stop making him sound vulnerable.

The nurses were staring. Sherry at his bedside to try to convince him for becks and calls that he did not make, and Barbara at the foot of his bed, closing in on him. Getting taller and taller, even though they were leaning down closer to him.

They were inspecting him for new flaws. Probing for any signs of weight loss that was possibly achieved. Trying to determine much progress he has made trying to get better, or any new problems that they can used to further judge him.

Barbara snatched his jacket. He couldn't tell which, but she was either pulling him closer to breathe a drunken threat into his face or trying to help herself to a view the sweaty flabs.

Barry knew better than to jerk away. Or make any sudden movements. He slowly drifted back, crushing his ribs further. Another tear rolled down when he realized that was probably the furthest back he could get away from them.

" Barry, it's all right." And some other lies that he has heard before. "I'll need to take you to get a check up, if that's all right. But you are going to have to eat some breakfast first"

She pitifully repeated herself. "Let's eat some breakfast. It doesn't have to be the whole thing, just enough to get full. And then, I will be taking you to see Dr. Cassidy. Is that all right, Barry?"

He wanted to say no. He knew he couldn't and that telling them to go away was not an option. Stupid Barry, they are not wasting their time, they are doing this on purpose. And they will stay here all day if they have to. They will take as long as they need to and they will wait for you to let your guard down. They will wait for you to get tired. They will wait for you to calm down and that is when they will take control.

They are not wasting time. As they wait for you, they are searching for- and will easily find - new things to laugh at, to tell everybody else about, to make sure that everybody knows. You should learn to control your Act because this is another panic attack that you will not live down, and it will get worse the longer you let yourself act this way


	3. A/N: Who wants more?

I've been having some mental health problems and I'm getting back to living. I enjoy writing this story but I need to manage my time. If people enjoy this and want more updates, I'm sorry for the wait, it's not too late, please tell me and I will start writing again. Otherwise I will be focusing on other stories and new drabbles/requests. I appreciate everyone who's been here, it's amazing I can share my ideas with you.


	4. (Victor-Diana) (barry)

A gleam of blue and white was stretched down the hall, as if the glare underneath the door was the only sign of life.

The tapping on a controller, followed by occasional huffs, was loud enough for Diana to sigh in relief. The young man behind the door hadn’t gone anywhere. But that was just it - he wasn’t going anywhere. There wasn’t anywhere, he’d argue, and there was nothing for her to say because she’s been there. 

She peeked into the room, the corner of the laundry basket slightly wedged between the door and frame and knob. The musty storage smell wafting from an open dresser drawer, the burnt light bulbs that began clouding up, webbed dust gluing journals and rotten plants and various playthings including an unwrapped of tinker toys onto the back of a shelf - she has been there. 

The hooded man turned around on his rug, placing his controller onto one of his bean bag chairs. “You know, you could knock.”

Diana smiled, peeking further into the door to get a better look at his nose from under the hood. “Laundry.”

“Just leave it.” He gestures to the smooth, fluffy gray bedspread. Hoodies were pretty bulky, especially the wool laced ones, and they had no problem masking the faint plastic smell from the pillows. 

“Alfred needs a hand today, and there’s much to do.” She placed the basket by his bed. “Could you please put them away? I know you’re bu-”

He stood. “You could just not wash them to begin with.” One side of his body still reached for the laundry with a sigh. His hood kept the glow of his other eye from lighting the room up, encasing everything in red.  
Diana beamed her smile at him, no matter how hard he ignored her rambles about supper, or something about tomorrow and how she’d like him to join them. Metal clasps of his fingers squeezed a jacket. Why couldn’t she just understand? 

~~~~~~~

Barry fiddled with his hair. Shorter, finely clipped bangs and hair were more difficult for his trembling fingers to harvest. There was no wrap and pull. The matted knot was gone, and the lack of weight on his neck helped the lingering tranquilizers and warmth of a meal make him feel like a bobblehead. 

He gave another glance to the woman across the small office at her desk, fumbling in her white coat for a pen.. Assessing the way he hunched over at the table, kicking the legs of his mounted chair, smearing a felt tip marker along his palm or the steel while he procrastinated to add another imperfect line to his picture. She’d grin back, whenever she wasn’t typing away. Grin at the marks he did to his face -- no. Stupid, Barry, stupid. Dr. Cass was there to help. Even if for the sake of her job, she was trying to be nice.

She said softly, borderline too softly, “Are we awake enough to talk, at least a little?” 

“I don’t know. Are we?”

“Barry…”She knew his name. “Anything will help.”

The thin, rounded paper was tainted with a new crease anytime he grabbed it, or his clammy skin stuck to it. This paper would never work, if his drawing was to ever work enough to matter. He threw streaks down until it was constructed to an acceptable circle. 

“Talk to me, please. Pictures aren’t doing it.” 

Yeah…” he bit his tongue. They weren’t meant to. 

He hunched deeper within his jacket. Forcing the sloth away to not procrastinate, to just shut up and draw, because Cassidy’s uneven pen tapping and clock-glimpsing was reminding him how much neither of them wanted to be stuck here with him.

Cassidy’s tone perked up. “What are you drawing Barry?” 

Sush and draw. Do SOMETHING GOOD. 

“Barry?”

The marker fell onto the table. His fingers tightened up, scouting the crown of his head, ready to pull as hard as they had to once he found a contaminated hair. 

“Mr. Allen.”

She took a glimpse over his paper. The sketches were beginning to form a bird. “A crow, Mr. Allen?” 

 

“A raven,” his voice lightly cracked. “Edgar Allan Poe.” His ramblings ignited in his throat but were interrupted when she asked about Barry. Anything about the raven itself. “Uh,” he said, “it’s just interesting. Mysterious.” -pretty. But, no. He is not supposed to have emotions. 

An awkward stare towards the doctor, before snatching the marker and cupping hand over the bird and sketching some words under the raven. 

She wrung out a few more notes, then rolled away from the computer. Slowly joined him at the table. 

Hs hand cupped harder. He looked up at her. 

“So, Barry.” Her tone has changed. Now higher pitched, more professional. “How are things? Tell me about the week.”

"That is a very nice haircut." 

His eyes clenched shut. 

“Are you writing me a note? I’d prefer you tell me.”

“Tell me everything.” The secrets. The past you refuse to remember. The things you are not, not allowed to repeat for the sake of your life. Barry, don’t do it. 

“I’d like to know.” She was here to help? Right. 

“Did you see a raven lately?”  
She loudly bit her tongue upon realizing he’s had no windows nor has been anywhere remotely near the tweet of a bird. 

“Anything good for breakfast today?” 

Barry can still smell it. His throat was a trench, sucked up all of it. The leaking eggs crispy, bubbling in fat. An entire packet of sugar grinding against the oats and milk and fruit as the nurse mixed it, using the sae greasy spoon she’d used to slather and contaminate the toast to the point of being soggy. 

“How was this morning? I heard-”

Barry threw the marker down, his fingers racing to clench his forehead. “Okay, I REALLY don't want to talk about this. Please?”


End file.
